


As a Seal Upon Your Arm

by MadameFolie



Category: Stand Still Stay Silent
Genre: F/M, Vibrators
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-30
Updated: 2016-08-30
Packaged: 2018-08-11 22:24:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,601
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7909867
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MadameFolie/pseuds/MadameFolie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sigrun and Mikkel have a little fun on a side trip. Or, what Sigrun and Mikkel got up to while everyone else was busy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	As a Seal Upon Your Arm

**Author's Note:**

> Rounding out "Set Me As a Signet" and "Like a Seal Upon Your Heart"! Thanks for letting me take a crack at it!

One of the advantages of it being too cold to undress properly, Mikkel supposes, is that no dirt ends up in sensitive and difficult-to-explain places. He truly wishes he could share in his companion's comfort in that regard.

 

"Whatever, whatever," Sigrun had said, closing the door behind them. The bag of supplies, as it had fallen to the floor, had kicked up a fair bit of dust. "Had weirder."

 

"You don't say." The detritus piling up on the window sill had been gritty when rolled between his gloved fingertips as well. Dirt and old skin cells and wood rot and the minuscule corpses of microorganisms long deceased. Mikkel had wondered --still wonders-- if perhaps they might not have been better off outside. The detritus you know, so to speak. But by then Sigrun had already moved on to the matter of her boots. So he'd drawn shut the crumbling curtains. One must take comfort in the small dignities that one can.

 

The sofa bears their weight with little protest. Sigrun snorts at the sight of the tiny box standing across from them on rusting legs.

 

"What's that?" Mikkel's seen a few of them in books. One in storage at the farm, as well; they've kept more than their fair share of defunct artifacts. Mostly it's very good for keeping stubborn box lids closed.

 

"It used to be an entertainment device. You could watch stories on it. Like a play." More or less. Sigrun frowns, looking very much as if she is trying to envision precisely that.

 

"You mean like films." So she has seen something like it.

 

"But whenever you want. No projectors."

 

"Fancy." And without missing a beat, she stands to undo her pants. Much easier said than done, with one arm still in a sling. "Sounds even better than the gramophone books."

 

"I'll get it," Mikkel offers. She'll reopen her stitches like this, history is on his side. There's a moment's awkwardness, where neither of them are quite sure who ought to be where, but Sigrun relaxes when his hands clasp the zipper.

 

"Getting the special treatment these days, am I?"

 

"Mm. Plenty of rest is recommended." He slips the pants down her hips with his thumbs hooked over the hem. A strong hand grips his hair from behind, turning his face upwards.

 

"Yeah? This part doctor's orders, too?" She really is quite strong, for all that her streamlined build belies it. A trained soldier's honed ability, rather than his own raw strength. Mikkel swallows the tremor in his throat.

 

"Not a doctor," he is able to breathe out.

 

"Pff. No fun, either." She releases his hair. Too late, it's already gone right to his gut. They haven't got much time to spare, half an hour at the most before the others get suspicious. It has been something of a trial for his libido -- which isn't what it used to be. Thirty minutes in the cold, no beds permitted, no kissing permitted. The rules are rather restrictive, but rules are rules, and they are made for a reason. The invisible wires of the body and the heart become so easily cross-strung. Perhaps it's for the best, though. He must concede he's become all the more resourceful for them. Sigrun rests her hand upon his head, coat still draped across her shoulders. "So, Mister Not-A-Doctor. Whatcha got in your kit for me today?"

 

A moment groping in the supply bag yields quite the selection; he defaults to the one that fits to his hand most easily, a smooth, compact massager that bends with the contour of his palm.

 

"This is cute," he observes, thumbing the switch. It hums to life. Ah. Solar-powered then. How fancy, indeed.

 

"Aw, you made it mad. Look, it's growling." She laughs, watching him trace it along the edges of a shining burn scar inside her knee. "And now it's hungry for flesh!" He presses to the seam of her underwear, and the sudden switch to astonished yelp is disproportionately rewarding.

 

"My mistake. I believe my hand must have slipped."

 

"You're such an _ass_ ," Sigrun grunts. "Do that again." Very well. He can oblige -- Mikkel turns it to a lower setting and holds it between her legs again. This time, slightly higher. He feels out the shape of her through the fabric with his unencumbered hand, where her body opens almost-beneath his fingers. It isn't quite as easy as when one isn't working blind, but he expects he knows her body well enough by now. Up along the crest of her cunt until he feels shifting hardness under his thumb. See, he observes, with just a tiny bit of pressure to spread her apart. Like so. The effect curls her toes at his waist. He would like to lay his temple to the crease of her hip. His cock stirs from the scent of her arousal, thick and heady and inexorable under his skin.

 

"Careful," he warns her, as she begins to roll her hips against it. "Your stitches--"

 

Sigrun groans, then, pushing against the massager. This fist of her injured arm is clasped shut, the elbow still folded safely in its sling. The fist flexes, but settles at last on the lapel of her coat. Unsteady, but no longer likely to strain at her sutures.

 

"Just," he says. "Don't put so much stress on them." She's drawing air in labored pulls now.

 

"Like to see you try," she quips. "Speaking of which. Don't you want to try something out?" She jerks her chin in the direction of the forgotten bag. "Got plenty to go around."

 

"Ah. I hadn't," hadn't thought of it yet, he means to say. But his thoughts are hazy, dulled over by desire. Sigrun's ankle upon his groin snaps him from his reverie.

 

"Hey, no time like the present. Tell you what, why don't you go grab yourself something fun and you can help me keep my arm still while we wait for all this fancy old world technology to do the hard work for us?"

 

It's rather difficult to argue with a plan like that. They do both fit quite comfortably on the sofa together, Sigrun stretched out along his side. He holds her arm steady with his arm as a splint. It is pleasant, though the matching toy tucked into his clothes is a strange sensation, thrumming of its own volition along his erection. Sigrun rocks against his hip.

 

"Some grip you got, doc." Not a doctor, he opens his mouth to say, but she slings her leg across his, trapping the massager flat to the base of his cock. He curses. "One of these days, you're going to have to let me have a little fun with those muscles of yours."

 

"If," he tries, but his tongue has forsaken him. There's so much "if". If they had the time. If they had the warmth. She's splayed her hands along his forearms and shoulders, feeling for the power beneath her palms. Strength, yes, he possesses, but of a yielding sort only. It serves him in his labors, but it isn't much to look at. Were she to see it...he does not know that she would want it still. "If you," Sigrun kneads the massages against him again. "Ah-- perhaps--" She laughs in his hair, but there's more breath to it than belly.

 

"What's the matter, doc, cat got your tongue?" There isn't much he can do in the way of retaliation, the injured arm being what it is. It rests unresisting, cradled in his own. He tries not to clasp his hand on it too tightly. But Sigrun's cheek is sharp-soft on his breast. Their tangled legs draw them together to aching. She laughs until the laughs bleed into sighs, until the sighs bleed into a cry against his neck. He eases her through her orgasm with the heel of his palm working the toy against her. He continues until it undoubtedly begins to ache and his own orgasm claims him.

 

He is able to give their supplies a cursory cleaning, though they'll need a disinfecting proper once circumstances allow. The two of them could very well stand a cleaning of their own. His tacky clothing clings, and there's no amount of pleasure worth that, he thinks. Noted for future dalliances -- no activities that leave one in lesser condition than at the outset. They take pause to gather up what few books lay at hand, and to examine Sigrun's sutures.

 

"See," Sigrun remarks, of the undisturbed ligature work. Even Mikkel himself is impressed. Unsightly or not, they certainly are some stubborn stitches. He supposes that is all they really need to be. "They're fine. Hanging out. Doing what they're supposed to." Mikkel taps at one. "Ow."

 

"We should redo the dressing when we get back. Just in case." The wounds are closing well. There shouldn't be much risk of infection if they work fast. Of course, better to be safe than sorry. They sit a while in silence as Mikkel re-wraps her arm, until Sigrun announces, with all the gravity of a command decision:

 

"Whatever. Long as it doesn't interfere with your dinner duties."

 

"Oh, banish the thought."

 

"Captain needs her sludge."

 

"Naturally." He sets the jacket over her shoulders and helps her under the strap of her bag. "Will that be all, then?" Sigrun cocks her head, scowling in thought. He really should have known better than to proffer as much.

 

"Eh," she sighs. "It's a start. Now. Food. Hop to it."

 

And so, as ever before he follows her: along the cold, winding way back to home.


End file.
